Breakfast at the Honey Creek Café Page 7

  “No.” Anna grabbed a pile of mail out of a nook and bumped her way past him. “You just go on about your hall wandering. I’ll check on you later to see if you need water.”

  Then she was gone. Sam blinked. Anna Presley was too short, redheaded, bossy, and definitely crazy, but she was also interesting.

  He walked on down the hallway to a small kitchen that opened into a parlor set up with a dozen long tables. One of the boys he’d seen following the drunk last night was sitting alone at one of the tables. In the light the kid looked about nine or ten. Dirty. Thin.

  Sam grinned. “Where’d you park your wagon?”

  “Outside.” The kid didn’t look up. “I’m supposed to be here.”

  Sam moved closer. “I’m not. You going to kick me out?”

  The boy raised his gaze, a smile fighting to keep from breaking out. “No, I’ll let you stay, but I doubt Miss Stella will.”

  Sam pulled out the chair across the table from the kid. He had sandy hair and intelligent eyes.

  Might as well meet the natives, Sam decided. Maybe it would be best to start with a little one. “I’m new in town. Don’t know nothing. Does this café serve coffee?”

  The kid shook his head. “You are lost. This isn’t a café. This is a church.”

  “Oh, thanks. I didn’t see any sign when I came in the back door.” Sam stood and walked to the kitchen. When he opened the refrigerator door, he wasn’t surprised to see a dozen boxes of juice.

  “How about we have a snack while we wait?” He grabbed four boxes of apple juice and two bags of chips. “It’s all right. The mayor told me to help myself.”

  When he set his loot in the center of the table, the kid nodded his head. Sam asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Gabe. I work here. Every Saturday I deliver bags to the shut-ins.” He pointed to a line of paper grocery bags on a counter. “I have to wait until Miss Stella gets here and tells me the route. It’s the same as last week probably, but I still have to wait for orders. Miss Stella says that’s the way things work.”

  “What’s in the bags?” Sam opened one of the juices and passed it to Gabe.

  The boy drank it before he answered. “Milk, oatmeal, three cans of soup, a small loaf of bread, cookies, and tuna. Sometimes a dozen eggs from the Moody sisters. They got more chickens than they can count. Sometimes honey from the Lane Farm or leftover scones from the bakery.”

  “You get paid for the deliveries?”

  Gabe shook his head. “No, but I get one of the bags to take home.”

  Sam found the kid fascinating. “You mind if I go along? I’d like to meet a few people in town. Besides, Miss Stella hasn’t told me what to do today so I might as well tag along with you.”

  Gabe tilted his head. “You aren’t long on praying, are you? I got a dozen deliveries.”

  “Nope. Was the last guy?”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the next Saturday might roll around before we finished the deliveries.” Gabe frowned. “He wasn’t as bad as the stand-in who came next. That preacher sniffed at the end of every sentence and he squirreled away tissues by the dozens. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t have a few stuffed in his socks.”

  “You call the preachers the stand-ins?”

  “It’s easier than trying to remember their names. I don’t know if none of them want to stay or if the church doesn’t offer them a long-time job. Near as I can tell they all walk out faster than they walked in.”

  Sam rarely talked to kids, but he figured if he hung around two weeks he’d probably learn a great deal from this one. “Any other rules I should follow if I tag along with you?”

  “You pull the wagon half the time.” Gabe grinned. “The first half.”

  “Deal.” Sam passed the chips and another juice across the table.

  Five minutes later they were loaded up. The wagon was packed and Stella had leaned her head in the parlor long enough to tell Gabe to get going. Same route.

  She didn’t say a word to Sam, but her thin eyebrows raised. Probably because he was still in town.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what it was that drove preachers off. Maybe her stern looks.

  Gabe stood. “I’d better get going. You still coming?”

  “Of course.” Sam picked up four bags. Gabe picked up one and led the way to the back door, where his wagon waited. Two more trips and two more juice boxes and they were on their way.

  Gabe walked beside Sam and told him all he knew about each person before they reached their house.

  “The first was a trucker before he got the big C. He’s always asking me to move something or climb up where he can’t reach. Then he gives me a dollar and says a man should be paid for his work, so I take it.”

  Sam talked to the man while Gabe put up groceries and took out trash. Sam kept the prayer to one minute.

  A half block later the next delivery went about the same, only the ninety-year-old woman didn’t offer Gabe money. She just sat in her rocker and knitted while Sam fought the urge to count the cats wandering around.

  As they walked away Gabe said, “Last Christmas she made me a blanket. Real pretty one.”

  The next house was old and rambling. They passed through two unlocked iron doors to get to the back entrance. Gabe whispered, “This is Mr. Winston’s home. He’s rich, they say, and he got there by never wasting a dime. He put in for the weekly bags and the church don’t ask any questions so he gets one.”

  An old man dressed in a worn suit finally answered the door. “Hello, young Gabe,” he bellowed. “Please come in.” Watery gray eyes looked up at Sam. When he smiled, the old man seemed to have wrinkles on top of wrinkles. “I see you’ve brought a guest. I’ll pull down another cup.” Winston stepped back as if he were the butler and not the owner of this house that had to be worth a great deal. “Come in, gentlemen. I’m honored to have company this fine day.”

  While the old man pulled another cup from an open shelf, he motioned for them to sit around a table pushed into a small bay window off the kitchen.

  “It’s not cold today, but I thought there was enough of a breeze to have our last cup of tea before summer.” Winston smiled at Gabe. “I’ve been letting yours cool, young sir.”

  Winston removed the tea bag from the first cup.

  Gabe straightened as a wrinkled hand moved the cup toward him.

  Winston dropped the tea bag into the second cup.

  The old man turned to Sam. “I’m Mr. Winston, sir, and you must be the visiting preacher. The fifth in six months, I’m thinking. I do believe, and the first to visit me. Of course, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. I come every week.”

  “Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” As Sam took his seat, Winston moved the second cup in front of Sam, pulled the tea bag once more, and plopped it into the third cup of hot water.

  They talked of the weather and Winston wished Sam well. Then Gabe helped put up the food and carried the three cups to the sink. Everything Sam could see was old and worn, but still polished clean.

  When Sam and the kid reached the sidewalk outside the big house, Gabe whispered, “Next week we’ll get lemon water with ice. It’s summer.”

  On and on they went. Each house welcomed Sam. When Gabe pulled the wagon back toward the church with one bag left, Sam smiled down at the kid. “I’m glad I came along with you. I learned a great deal. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  Gabe shook his head. “Sunday is my mom’s only day off. We all spend the time together. She sleeps late. We help her do all the errands and chores. Then we play games or go for a walk down by the river. She says she thinks all week what she’s going to do with our time.”

  Gabe turned off a block from the church, pulling his wagon behind him. Sam smiled thinking he’d just gone on a journey into kindness.

  When Sam went back to his real job and saw people in trouble, he’d think of Gabe. Maybe it would give him a bit of peace.

  He was almost to the steps of the church when he sa
w the woman who was perched on the top step. At first glance she looked like a teenager with jeans and a T-shirt tied just above her waist on one side, but as he moved closer he saw she was older, well into her twenties.

  “Are you lost, miss?”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t need saving, Preacher. Go away.”

  Sam almost laughed, but she didn’t look like she was joking. “I was thinking more of giving you a map if I could find one.”

  “Oh. I thought . . .”

  He smiled. “I know what you thought.” He sat down about five feet away. “I’ll ask again. Is there something I can do to help you?”

  She stared at him. “I don’t need any preaching. I’m not planning a wedding or a funeral.”

  He could see anger in her eyes and there was a nervousness about her, but Sam had no idea what to say.

  She looked down. “That’s not true. I may need a funeral. I am planning to kill someone if I could find him. But I can’t go look because my car is across the street out of gas. Just my luck, it stops in front of a church and not a gas station.”

  Sam wasn’t sure if offering to push her car to the nearest gas station would count as a good deed or a bad one. He decided to change the subject. “Who are you going to kill?”

  “My secret boyfriend. I’ve texted him a dozen times to come get me and bring gas. We’ve been dating for months. He said our love was too special to share with anyone. Now he doesn’t share it with even me. He hasn’t answered his phone in three days and this weekend was going to be special.”

  “Well, if he’s your boyfriend and you’ve been dating, maybe you’ll need the wedding. After all, several months is plenty of time to get to know him.” Sam did his best to look innocent. A “do the right thing” kind of preacher.

  “I know him real well and I don’t want to marry him. He’s handsome, but his best feature is his wallet. He’s fun to go places with, but I’m not the kind of girl to marry for money.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  She nodded. “My momma told me once that a woman who marries for money will have to earn every penny. She’s been married five times so she should know.”

  Sam figured if he talked to this woman much longer, his brains would be scrambled. “I’ve got a gas can in my car. I could give you enough to get to the station, then you might want to think things out. You might decide never seeing this guy again would be a blessing.”

  “Only problem is my boyfriend has vanished before I got the chance. It’s even on the news like he was some big shot or something. How are we going to keep our love a secret when his face is in the paper?”

  Sam stood and offered his hand to her. “Good luck . . .”

  She took the hint. “Marcie.” She accepted his hand and didn’t let go. “You won’t tell anyone that you helped me, will you, Preacher? It’s in your job description. Right?”

  “Right.” He stood and added, “I’ll get the gas for you and if you need to talk anytime the next few weeks, I’ll be here.”

  She nodded once, then stretched her long legs over several of the steps as if preparing for a wait.

  When he returned, Marcie and her car were gone. Sam sat back down on the steps thinking about her. She looked worried, fighting mad, but in her eyes there was pain. This no-good secret boyfriend had hurt her, and Sam wished he’d known what to say to make her feel better.

  Chapter 9

  Noon, Saturday

  Piper

  The mayor did her Saturday morning duties as if it had been an ordinary week. No make-believe fiancé disappearing, no sheriff wandering off, no undercover state trooper practicing to be a detective.

  She could almost believe all was well in her little town.

  Her first duty for the weekend was simple but not easy. She appeared on the local eight o’clock radio talk show for five minutes. Her mission—to announce what was happening in Honey Creek. She usually mentioned any charity fund-raisers, weddings, or the recently departed. Nothing too heavy, the station manager had said, but it seemed he forgot to tell the DJ. Rattling Randy seemed to enjoy making his guests uncomfortable, if not downright angry. He had few friends in town, but his ratings were the highest the station had ever had. He tended to ask the questions no one else would.

  As soon as Piper had read the weekly happenings including the Fair on the Square to welcome summer, Randy jumped in with his first question. “According to the Dallas papers, you were involved with a man named Boone Buchanan, a big-time lawyer. Folks out there in the land of honey are talking about why this lawyer went missing this week. His bright red two-year-old BMW was found floating a mile downstream from Honey Creek. Want to tell us what you know about that, Mayor?”

  Piper had been preparing for this question all week, practicing her answers with every person who walked in her office. “First, Randy, thank you for letting me set the facts straight. Boone is a friend. Our grandfathers were friends and I’ve seen him occasionally since I was a child. We have attended a few charity and political functions in Austin together, but nothing more. We are not romantically involved.”

  She straightened. She’d told the truth. Now all she could hope for was that someone was listening. A memory of Boone at the age of ten flashed through her mind. They’d spent the afternoon playing Monopoly. When he’d lost, Boone had upended the board, sending all the pieces flying.

  Randy didn’t let a breath pass before he shot the next questions. “Have any idea why he was in town? Was he coming to see you? Driving in for a wild weekend? Maybe he made a wrong turn and simply dropped into the Brazos River.”

  “I didn’t know he was in town last week and I’m not familiar with his driving skills.”

  “What about the sheriff? Did you send him out to find your boyfriend?”

  “I thought part of the sheriff’s job was finding people. If Mr. Buchanan was in town and driving his fancy car when it went into the water, it makes sense that the sheriff would go looking. I, however, did not send him, nor do I have any idea of the sheriff’s or Boone’s whereabouts.” She stared the DJ down. “And, once again, Buchanan is not my boyfriend.”

  Randy showed his teeth, this time predator style. “By the way, Mayor, I’m sure our listeners would like to know who your last lover was? Don’t you think you’re a bit old to have a boyfriend?”

  Piper hadn’t lived with three generations of politicians without learning a thing or two. “I’ll be happy to let the people of Honey Creek know when Mr. Right comes along. Until then, my first and only love is my hometown, Honey Creek.”

  Randy frowned as he glanced at the clock. He didn’t have time to ask another question.

  The last minute the mayor always answered questions from callers. The town was so small Piper recognized most by their voice.

  Two people complained about the drainage problem on Main when it rained. One asked her to repeat the library hours, and the last one, toothless Harry Sizemore, asked her for a date.

  She left the windowless box of a radio station and walked a block to the weekly farmers’ market. It was too early in the season for many fruits, but vegetables packed the booths, along with honey, soaps, and all kinds of handmade goods. Here people were friendly and conversations floated along with the smells of fresh flowers and homemade fried pies.

  People came from all over the valley to sell their goods. It was easy to tell the locals from the tourists from the big cities like Dallas and Austin. The locals bartered with money rarely changing hands. Tourists paid the asking price and walked away, marveling at their finds.

  “Morning, Mr. Winston.” Piper smiled at the old man dressed in his summer blue suit with a gray linen vest. The collar of his white starched shirt might be a bit frayed, but his shoes were polished and his beard perfectly trimmed.

  “Good morning, Mayor. May I say you look lovely today?”

  “You may.” Winston might be more than twice her age, but he still had a twinkle in his eyes for the ladies. “I’d like one of your b
askets full of cherries.”

  “For you, half price.” He winked.

  Everyone knew Mr. Winston bought his berries from the produce manager at United. Winston simply took them home, washed them, put them in cute little paper baskets, and sold them for double the price to the tourists. Near the end of the market morning, he’d trade two baskets for a dozen eggs, one basket for a homemade peach fried pie or a fourth pound of homemade butter.

  Surprisingly, he also bought a small flowering plant. It seemed odd because he had only weeds growing around his big Tudor home that had stood out in the town for more than fifty years.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winston,” Piper said as she carefully slipped the cherries into her shopping basket and turned to finish her walk along the west end of the small market.

  A shadow blocked the sun and Piper looked up.

  She forced a blank expression as if she didn’t know the man who’d stepped up behind her. Worn jeans, western boots, and a plaid shirt. His curly hair brushed against his collar as his amber eyes studied her. Wolf eyes, that she hadn’t seen clearly last night. A touch of cinnamon color blended in his curls.

  Trooper Colby McBride was handsome when he wasn’t in shadows or bleeding.

  “May I help you, sir?” Winston said from just behind Piper. His tone more formal than friendly now.

  “No, thank you, partner. I’m just here to say hello to this pretty lady. It’s been ten years since I’ve seen her and I swear she’s more beautiful than I remember.”

  Piper continued to stare at Colby McBride. Of course she knew who he was, but she did her best to pretend. She’d talked to him on the widow’s walk last night atop city hall. She’d patched up a bloody wound in his cabin. He’d been all business, all professional on the top of her building. Later he’d been angry when she slipped into his cabin. Now he was grinning and rocking back on his heels as if he were waiting for her to give him a hug.

  Except for that comment about her having cute toes, she’d thought him well trained with a bit of kooky mixed in. Only now she decided he wasn’t as polished as she’d thought. This part he was playing might turn out to be hard to handle. She wanted him to solve this mystery, but she didn’t know how far she wanted to play in to his goofy cover story.