Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery)

“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.