old gal in. Has anybody brought my name into this?”
I frowned.
“I’m China York.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook her hand, noticing she had a strong grip for a seemingly ancient woman. She also had calluses, which told me she was still a hard worker.
“Me and old Yodel had quite a round at church a few years back. I thought it’d be only fair for me to know if I’m a suspect.”
“I’m . . . I’m not privy to the police investigation,” I said, wondering if I should refer her to Joanne, “but I don’t see why you’d be a suspect, Ms. York. An argument at church is hardly a motive for murder.”
“Right.” She grinned. “I’ve got an alibi in case I get hauled in for questioning.”
“That’s always good to have . . . I guess.”
“You bet. Well, good luck with your business. Things’ll likely pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.”
I stood slack-jawed as Ms. York spun around and walked out of the aisle.
I went to the office and collected my check and cake plate. Mr. Franklin had put the cake plate in a Save-A-Buck bag, presumably so no one would see me leaving with it. Heaven forbid, anyone should think the Save-A-Buck had sold possibly tainted cakes. This, despite the fact that Save-A-Buck had merely taken my name off the cakes and sold them anyway. Had Mr. Franklin been truly concerned, he’d have taken my cakes and dumped them in the garbage. He knew the cakes were good; but I’d been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion, and he and his store could not openly associate with me until that conviction was overturned. From a business standpoint, I could understand this logic. From a personal standpoint, this was merely another stab in an already gaping wound.
I was weary and bone tired when I got home. I wanted to take a bath, have a cup of hot tea, get into my favorite pajamas….
That’s where my thoughts . . . and plans . . . were interrupted by the inevitable knock on the door. Could I get away with not answering it? Probably not. My car was in the driveway, my lights were on; and with one recent murder, someone would probably call the police if I ignored the knock.
I went to the front door and took a look out of the peep hole. Myra. I stifled a groan.
Maybe she won’t stay long . . . and maybe there really is a Big Foot who fathers alien children .
I opened the door.
Before I could greet her, Myra said, “Honey, you look awful.” She placed her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot. Do you feel sick? Is it maybe something you ate yesterday?”
I smiled and led her into the living room.
“I’m awfully tired is all,” I said, dropping onto the couch.
Myra sat in the pink and white gingham chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. “I only dropped in to tell you how good your cakes were. Everybody loved them, and Carl, Jr. took what was left of the spice cake home with him.”
“Good. And thanks for sharing that with me. It seems the rest of the town thinks I’m the Confectionary Killer.”
“I hate that, sweetie. That’s probably why you feel bad. Nerves. But, this will blow over. You’ll see.”
“So I’ve been told. According to China York, ‘things’ll pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.’”
“China’s never been one to mince her words. Don’t be offended. It’s her way.”
“Is she always so cold?”
Myra pursed her lips. “Don’t know that I’d call her cold.” She cocked her head. “Hard-nosed. Is that the word I’m looking for? And she sure ain’t two-faced. She didn’t like Yodel when Yodel was living; she ain’t gonna pretend to like her now that she’s dead.”
“She asked me if she was a suspect. Why would she think I’d know?”
“Because you found the body. It’s only natural you’d be kept in the loop unless the police thought you killed Yodel . . . which they don’t.”
“Why in the world would I be kept in the loop? I’m not next-of-kin…I’m not
I frowned.
“I’m China York.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook her hand, noticing she had a strong grip for a seemingly ancient woman. She also had calluses, which told me she was still a hard worker.
“Me and old Yodel had quite a round at church a few years back. I thought it’d be only fair for me to know if I’m a suspect.”
“I’m . . . I’m not privy to the police investigation,” I said, wondering if I should refer her to Joanne, “but I don’t see why you’d be a suspect, Ms. York. An argument at church is hardly a motive for murder.”
“Right.” She grinned. “I’ve got an alibi in case I get hauled in for questioning.”
“That’s always good to have . . . I guess.”
“You bet. Well, good luck with your business. Things’ll likely pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.”
I stood slack-jawed as Ms. York spun around and walked out of the aisle.
I went to the office and collected my check and cake plate. Mr. Franklin had put the cake plate in a Save-A-Buck bag, presumably so no one would see me leaving with it. Heaven forbid, anyone should think the Save-A-Buck had sold possibly tainted cakes. This, despite the fact that Save-A-Buck had merely taken my name off the cakes and sold them anyway. Had Mr. Franklin been truly concerned, he’d have taken my cakes and dumped them in the garbage. He knew the cakes were good; but I’d been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion, and he and his store could not openly associate with me until that conviction was overturned. From a business standpoint, I could understand this logic. From a personal standpoint, this was merely another stab in an already gaping wound.
I was weary and bone tired when I got home. I wanted to take a bath, have a cup of hot tea, get into my favorite pajamas….
That’s where my thoughts . . . and plans . . . were interrupted by the inevitable knock on the door. Could I get away with not answering it? Probably not. My car was in the driveway, my lights were on; and with one recent murder, someone would probably call the police if I ignored the knock.
I went to the front door and took a look out of the peep hole. Myra. I stifled a groan.
Maybe she won’t stay long . . . and maybe there really is a Big Foot who fathers alien children .
I opened the door.
Before I could greet her, Myra said, “Honey, you look awful.” She placed her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot. Do you feel sick? Is it maybe something you ate yesterday?”
I smiled and led her into the living room.
“I’m awfully tired is all,” I said, dropping onto the couch.
Myra sat in the pink and white gingham chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. “I only dropped in to tell you how good your cakes were. Everybody loved them, and Carl, Jr. took what was left of the spice cake home with him.”
“Good. And thanks for sharing that with me. It seems the rest of the town thinks I’m the Confectionary Killer.”
“I hate that, sweetie. That’s probably why you feel bad. Nerves. But, this will blow over. You’ll see.”
“So I’ve been told. According to China York, ‘things’ll pick back up once Yodel’s in the ground.’”
“China’s never been one to mince her words. Don’t be offended. It’s her way.”
“Is she always so cold?”
Myra pursed her lips. “Don’t know that I’d call her cold.” She cocked her head. “Hard-nosed. Is that the word I’m looking for? And she sure ain’t two-faced. She didn’t like Yodel when Yodel was living; she ain’t gonna pretend to like her now that she’s dead.”
“She asked me if she was a suspect. Why would she think I’d know?”
“Because you found the body. It’s only natural you’d be kept in the loop unless the police thought you killed Yodel . . . which they don’t.”
“Why in the world would I be kept in the loop? I’m not next-of-kin…I’m not
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