Murder at the Blue Plate Café

By Judy Alter

Arson, a bad beating, and a recluse who claims someone is trying to kill her all collide in this third Blue Plate Café Mystery with Kate Chambers. Torn between trying to save David Clinkscales, her old boss and new lover, and curiosity about Edith Aldridge’s story of an attempt on her life, Kate has to remind herself she has a café to run. She nurses a morose David, whose spirit has been hurt as badly as his body, and tries to placate Mrs. Aldridge, who was once accused of murdering her husband but acquitted. One by one, Mrs. Aldridge’s stepchildren enter the picture. Is it coincidence that David is Edith Aldridge’s lawyer? Or that she seems to rely heavily on the private investigator David hires? First the peacocks die...and then the people. Everyone is in danger, and no one knows who to suspect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judy Alter
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996013161

Judy Alter

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. With Murder at the Blue Plate Café, she moved from inner city Fort Worth to small-town East Texas to create a new set of characters in a setting modeled after a restaurant that was for years one of her family’s favorites. She followed with two more Blue Plate titles: Murder at the Tremont Inn and Murder at Peacock Mansion.

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Murder at the Blue Plate Café

A Blue Plate Café Mystery

Judy Alter

Murder at the Blue Plate Café

Published by Judy Alter at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Alter Ego Publishing.

Copyright © 2013 Judy Alter

All rights reserved.

Editor, Suzanne Barrett

Cover Art Design by Calliope-Designs

Alter Ego Publishing

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9960131-6-1

In loving memory of Reva and Charles Ogilvie,

good times at Arc Ridge Ranch,

and good food at The Shed

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Recipes from The Blue Plate Café Cookbook

About Judy Alter

Chapter One

Gram’s dead.

The voice on the other end of the line was my twin sister, Donna, and her message was short, if not sweet. The phone rang at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning—not a time I was in a mood to be pleasant, let alone cheerful. I’d tried muffling it with a pillow, but the persistent ringing finally moved me to pick up the receiver and mutter, Yes, in a rather ungracious tone.

I know there are two sides to every story, but Donna and I did not get along, hadn’t since high school when she’d been the belle of the ball and I was pretty much a wallflower. To say that I’d blossomed in later years into a kind of yuppie social butterfly in Dallas did nothing to make Donna happier with me. From my point of view, it just made her jealous. As far as I could see, Donna would make the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. Given to easy hysterics, she always found life full of drama, which mostly wore me out. I thought she needed the drama because she’d stayed in Wheeler, Texas, married her high school sweetheart, and raised a family, while I was off in Dallas, frittering away (her words, not mine) my twenties and now thirties in bars and a series of dead-end love affairs. She never mentioned my really good job as a paralegal. I thought, with some conceit I admit, that she was jealous of my life.

This, however, was not funny, like most of her dramas.

I gripped the phone so hard my hand hurt. "Gram is not dead, I said fiercely. I just saw her…and she was fine." My head was pounding. Why, oh why, had I drunk so much wine in that smoky bar last night?

That was a month ago, Donna said, her voice rising, and you haven’t seen her since. Not that she wasn’t fine. She was until yesterday afternoon. She was at the café cooking mashed potatoes, and I don’t know what happened.

I cut her off. Donna, you’re babbling. Just tell me what happened.

You’d be babbling too if you’d been the one to find our dear grandmother dead, but of course it was me. You were off in Dallas having a good time. I tried to call but you didn’t answer.

That stung. I’d been hiding from myself in a bar, playing the happy party girl for all those around me. Truth was, as much as Donna, I didn’t know what I wanted out of life—but what I had wasn’t it.

Donna, I said, sitting up and hoping that would ease my headache, just tell me what happened. And are you sure Gram’s dead? Donna could always exaggerate.

Of course she’s dead. The ambulance came and the new chief of police, and they all said she was gone. A large sniffle on the other end. It was sudden. She just keeled over—right into the kettle of mashed potatoes, which had to be thrown away of course, and then no one had mashed potatoes with their chicken-fried.

I thought I might scream, except that it would make my head hurt worse. I did not care about people who didn’t get their mashed potatoes if anything had happened to my grandmother. I hadn’t made the hour-long drive to see her as often as I should. I guess I thought Gram would always be there. And though I loved Gram, visiting with Donna wasn’t my choice of a good time.

I was silent, mulling over these thoughts and numbly thinking about life without Gram. She had always been the whole world to me. For as long as I could remember—all thirty-two years of our lives—Gram had owned and operated the Blue Plate Café in Wheeler. When Donna and I were about two, our parents died in a car crash. It was the result of their lifestyle—they partied as much as I did and more—and the crash was because the father I can’t remember was drunk. Donna too often made the comparison. Gram never hinted at it, and she looked beyond—or over—the strife between her twin granddaughters. Gram raised us with love, good manners, and lots of food. We spent a lot of time in the café.

Sobbing, Donna said, Kate, that’s the way she would have wanted to go.

In a kettle of mashed potatoes? I don’t think so! I replied testily.

Suddenly Donna was full of plans. When can you get here? We have to make funeral arrangements. I want it to be the biggest best funeral Wheeler has ever seen.

I shuddered at the thought. Gram would want a small, simple ceremony, with her favorite hymns. Instead of going to Wheeler burdened by grief, I was going to go prepared to battle with my ditsy twin sister.

Then she added, And of course, we want to have the reading of the will as soon as possible.

My radar turned on. What’s the rush? We’ll be her only heirs, won’t we? It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want whatever Gram had. I wanted her back. I’ll be there by supper. I’ll come right to your house, but… I hesitated. I think I’d like to stay in Gram’s house, in my old room.

Sounds spooky to me, Donna said, but whatever you want. I’ll order something from the café before they close. We can heat it up.

Donna didn’t much like to cook, whereas I had dogged Gram’s every footstep, following her directions as she taught me to make everything from pot roast and her famous pancakes to apple pie. And to this day, I cooked. I won the hearts of a succession of men with my cooking—only to discover I didn’t really want a one of them as a longtime companion. Sometimes I worried about why I was such a slow learner.

It was Saturday, so I emailed my lawyer-boss and explained I’d be gone all next week. He’d understand, and he knew how to email me or call my cell phone if something was desperate. I pulled out my best black dress and a couple of other nice outfits to carry on hangers and then threw jeans and sweaters and T-shirts into a suitcase, hastily added my makeup, toothpaste and all that stuff, wondering what I was forgetting in my hurry. Anticipating some down time at Gram’s (well, maybe that was wishful thinking) I tossed in my Kindle with a couple of unread mysteries on it. And of course I took my computer, thinking of what Gram had said about my dependency on electronic gadgets. Then I lured Wynona the cat into the carrier, packed cat food for a seven-day stay, and began loading it all into my five-month-old Lexus, a Christmas treat for myself.

As I drove out of Dallas, beginning to pass farmland and prairie with dense stands of trees here and there, I thought about Gram, how much she’d loved life in Wheeler and her café. Gram was the most self-content person I knew; Donna was probably the least self-content. And me? I sure wasn’t any more self-content than Donna—just different.

My cell phone rang, but I took my eyes from the road only long enough to glance at caller ID. It was Rob, the latest man in my life, or at least he wanted to be. Trouble with Rob was he was married with a three-year-old at home, and I was having none of that. Still I had been tempted once, and I was in no mood right then to listen to him beg to see me again. I wished I had never let things get out of bounds one night after some extra wine. A lesson I learned over and over.

Wynona’s howling accompanied me most of the trip, but at last I saw a sign that indicated ten miles to the town. Wheeler is one of those towns that cluster along two-lane state highways, with most of the major businesses, if they could be called that, strung out along the highway. Houses extend down side streets for no more than two or three blocks, but the countryside was beginning to develop tourist trade—some antique stores, a few Dallas escapees who built huge, even pretentious, new homes on ranchitos, and several upscale B & Bs. When I passed the large, lushly green cemetery, the first tears stole out of my eyes. I’d been too stunned to cry, but now I thought that Gram would soon be lying in that cemetery, next to the parents and a grandfather I didn’t remember.

By the time I neared the café, tears were coming so fast I had a hard time seeing. Gram’s wood-frame house was right next door. I’d stop at the house to collect myself. I was early for supper anyway. Donna probably didn’t expect me for another hour. As I passed the café, out of habit, I checked the parking lot—full as always, even on a Saturday afternoon. Fried catfish was always the Saturday special, and I bet that’s what Donna would order. She’d send her husband to get it, but Tom wouldn’t notice my car at Gram’s if I pulled around back.

The house was quiet and unlit when I entered through the kitchen door, unlocked as usual. Gram always said, Land’s sake, there’s nothin’ in here anybody would want, and folks in Wheeler are honest. Fortunately the air conditioners were running—window units in the kitchen and Gram’s room. I flipped on the lights—a central ceiling fixture in the middle of the large kitchen and one light over the sink—no recessed or track lighting for Gram. Running my hand over the Formica counter, blue speckled with white, I remembered how proud she had been when she had it installed. The table was a round oak pedestal table, old and worn from many cups of morning coffee. Now it would bring a nice price in an antique store. Gram believed in white kitchens, but she’d made hers cheery with blue gingham curtains and touches of blue here and there—the dishtowel that hung by the sink, new toaster oven I’d found in just the right shade. The Blue Willow china, I knew, was stacked neatly in one cupboard. For a minute, I thought about calling off supper with Donna and staying here, but for once my conscience over-ruled my whim.

My old bedroom still looked the way it had when I graduated from high school—pictures of rock stars I no longer remember on the wall, used schoolbooks in the bookshelf, the plaid comforter on the bed. I released Wynona, fed her, and set up the cat box in the bathroom. I could hear Gram scolding me, Cats should take care of their business outside. No need for one of those litter boxes full of diseases. The voice was so real to me I jumped and looked around, but I was alone with Wynona.

Retrieving my things from the car, I spread them out in the my bedroom and the bathroom—everything was just as Gram had left it yesterday morning, the bathroom spotless and neat until I scattered my things on the vanity. The room smelled like Gram and her Jean Naté cologne. Back in the bedroom, I threw myself on the bed. Tears had come again, and I bunched the pillows under my head and gave way to sobbing—until my fingers touched something crisp. I sat up and pulled out an envelope with my name on it written in Gram’s shaky hand. I blotted my eyes and, afraid, gently opened the envelope. The letter was dated four months ago, not long after I’d been home for Christmas.

Dear Kate,

I don’t think this is likely, but if something happens to me, I want to leave this note for you—and you alone.

Everything I have goes to you girls, of course, with a few bequests to others who’ve been loyal over the years and a larger one to the city of Wheeler. You girls have been the joys of my life, each in your own way. Donna will want to sell the café, but I hope you will keep it. You can find someone to manage it for you while you’re in Dallas.

When you read this, don’t worry about me. I’ll be in a better place, though I always thought Wheeler was about as good as it gets. I love you very much,

Gram

Now I was really bawling, and I had to put the letter down to keep from smearing the ink. When I finally stopped crying and looked in the bathroom mirror at my red, swollen eyes and splotchy face, I knew neither a splash of cold water nor more makeup would fool Donna.

It didn’t. She took one look at me and threw her arms around me. Oh, Kate, Gram always said you were the sentimental one.

I can’t help it, I blubbered. Her house smells like her…and I keep expecting to see her come in and throw her apron in the laundry.

You went there? I thought you were coming straight here. You better go get your stuff and stay here tonight. Her tone had just a bit of scold in it.

I brought my cat, and I know you didn’t want her in your house.

Oh. Well, that’s different. Donna didn’t tolerate pets, and I felt sorry that her children never had a dog or cat to cuddle and love. Then she changed the subject, telling me she didn’t order from the Blue Plate because the ladies of the Methodist church had been bringing food all day. We have casseroles, a ham, Jell-O salads out the kazoo, and an array of cakes to choose from. Honestly, I’d rather have catfish tonight, but I can’t see letting all this food go to waste.

Donna with a practical side? I couldn’t believe it. But then, with Donna, you never knew. I longed for a simple tuna salad sandwich, but I appreciated the custom and the kindness behind all the food.

Donna led me into the family room, and I followed, looking at my sister from behind. We were twins, yes, but unfortunately not identical. Donna had lush, thick hair with just enough body that she usually wore it loose, to her shoulders. She was tall and thin and always dressed in an outfit, even at home. Tonight, it was peach Capri pants and a matching print shell, with a peach scarf holding her hair into a low ponytail. I too, was tall—not quite as tall was she was, but as I’d found out early in high school, 5’8 is tall for a girl. My hair was darker, sort of a mousy brown that I fixed with highlights. And I was never the fashion plate Donna was. I wore business attire" in the office, but at home—and now—I was in jeans and a T-shirt from the Humane Society of Dallas County.

The children came to greet me on her command. Ava, fourteen, and Henry, eleven, were playing a video game that looked pretty violent to me. Did Donna ever look at what her kids were doing? They each gave me an obligatory hug and then returned to their video game. Little Jessica, six, had been reading a book. She took my hand and said softly, I miss Gram already, don’t you?

I hugged her. Yes, Jess, I do. And with that she led me into the kitchen where Donna had laid out all the food and some plates. The children came and filled their plates—after a chorus of What’s this? and I don’t like that. It looks yucky—and returned to the family room. Just then Donna’s husband, Tom, came in the back door.

Hey, Kate, I’m so sorry about Gram. What a great lady. I never met anyone like her. He enveloped me in a bear hug. Tom had been the hero of the football team our junior year, a year ahead of us in school, and Donna had been proud of snaring him. So proud that little Ava arrived a bit too soon after the wedding, which was held the day after Donna graduated from high school. Gram never said a word about Ava’s early arrival, and she adored Donna’s children, though I wasn’t sure why. Jess was as sweet as she could be, but Ava and Henry were couch potatoes, dull and self-centered. Now, fourteen years later, Tom looked like a grown man, but he had held on to the size and strength of his football days. Well, he did have a bit of a beer belly, but not bad. Sometimes I thought Donna had made the right choice—staying in Wheeler and marrying a really good guy.

Tom Bryson, are you tracking mud into my kitchen? Donna demanded. She gave him neither welcoming hug nor kiss but stood, hands on her hips, inspecting the floor where he’d walked.

I don’t think so, hon. I haven’t been any place muddy today. He looked sheepish.

When I had freed myself from his hug, I asked, How’re things at the store? Tom had inherited his father’s hardware when his dad died of cancer in his fifties.

Doing good, he said. The Canton Home Depot is too far for most folks to go, so our business generally holds up. Fact is, it’s gotten better now that we have rich homeowners in the county, as well as tourists. We carry some novelty items, and visitors stroll in pretty often.

And your mom?

Mom’s okay. I don’t suppose she’ll ever get over losing Dad, but she keeps busy with the church, and she still gives piano lessons, not that many kids take them these days. I knew Tom’s own children didn’t take lessons—there was no piano in the house.

Speaking of Canton, Donna interrupted, we’ll have to go there to talk to the lawyer and check the safety deposit box. I have a key, and my signature is on file. She hesitated, It made more sense than putting you on it since I’m closer. I’ve already called the lawyer’s office, and we’ll have to go to the funeral home. Reverend Baxter will be here at two-thirty tomorrow afternoon to discuss funeral arrangements. I thought maybe we could have it Wednesday.

Stunned, I was thinking she could have waited to consult me. She sure was in a hurry, which made me worry. Tom said brusquely, Let’s have a peaceful dinner before we go into all that, can we? Kate, Donna, want wine? He grabbed himself a beer out of the fridge, while I uttered a weak, White, please.

I’ll have the usual, Donna said. Her usual was white Zinfandel, that sweet awful stuff. Tom knew me well enough that he had chardonnay on hand for me.

We filled our plates with sliced ham, a corn casserole, scalloped potatoes, a spinach casserole, and a red fruit Jell-O salad with dark cherries in it