Murder Can Mess Up Your Masterpiece Read online

  I could just insist we go somewhere public, with lots of people who would see me. More importantly, I’d go nowhere alone with him. That would be safe, right?

  “When did you have in mind for dinner?” I asked.

  “How about tomorrow evening?”

  “I can meet you somewhere,” I said. That way I wouldn’t be alone in a vehicle with him.

  “That’ll work. Where would you like to go?” he asked.

  “There’s a little café nearby if that’s all right with you?”

  My Aunt Patsy owned the place. She would take no funny business from Caleb if he was up to something. And I’d be among people who knew and cared about me.

  CHAPTER 8

  Travel trailer tip 8: Remember not to leave food out so as not to attract animals. Running into a bear at breakfast is not a good way to start your day.

  Since I hadn’t expected to have a date for the evening, I hadn’t brought an appropriate outfit. Even though it was just my aunt’s little café around the corner, I felt a paint-stained T-shirt and jeans were probably a bit too casual . . . and slobby. Aunt Patsy would have a fit if she saw me dressed like that for a date.

  My home was a short drive away, so I decided to make a quick trip by my place for a change of clothing. Plus, my mother had agreed to watch Van while I went out with Caleb. Going out with Caleb? That sounded strange. Was I really having dinner with someone I suspected could be the murderer?

  As I pulled into the driveway of my family’s modest, red-brick ranch home, I noticed that the mailbox had fallen off its post again. Although my father and brothers were whizzes when it came to fixing vehicles, they couldn’t seem to get the mailbox to stay put.

  My mom came out to meet me wearing jeans and a T-shirt covered by an apron that clearly told me she had been cooking spaghetti sauce. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?” she asked as she picked up Van.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I figure I can ask him questions. I’ll know if he’s guilty.”

  “I doubt he’s going to confess, Celeste. He’d only do that right before he murders you. Once that happens, it won’t matter if he confessed to you,” she said.

  “I see your point.” I handed her Van’s bag of toys, food, and treats. “Though I have it all planned. We’re going to Aunt Patsy’s place. There’s no way he’d try anything around her.”

  “How long is Van staying with me?” She eyed the tote bag.

  “Just a few hours. Why?”

  My mother pulled out the six toys I’d picked out for Van. “Oh, no reason.”

  Screaming and yelling came from somewhere out back. My mother and I raced to the noise. My father and brothers were stomping on something in the backyard. Smoke billowed from whatever they were attacking.

  My mother and I ran toward them.

  “What in blue blazes is going on out here?” my mother asked as she wiped her forehead with a dish towel.

  “Dad tried to start a fire to burn some trash while wearing his work gloves. He’d cleaned the gloves with gasoline,” my brother Stevie said.

  “How many times have I told you no fires?” My mother blew the hair that had fallen from her bun out of her eyes.

  My father was a man of few words. He reached down and picked up his charred gloves. After a quick assessment, he placed them back on his hands.

  “Well, back to work,” he said, walking away as if nothing had happened.

  My father’s birthday was next week. I supposed I’d buy him new gloves as a present.

  “And don’t you dare buy him new gloves,” my mother said, as if reading my mind. “He doesn’t deserve a new pair if he’s just going to set them on fire.”

  She said this, but I knew she’d probably buy him a new pair tomorrow. We were used to my father’s antics by now. He wasn’t the only one in the family who acted this way, though. My brothers, cousins, uncles . . . they all had their share of not-so-great ideas. Now that the excitement was over, we headed inside. Walking through the kitchen, I enjoyed the aroma of homemade tomato sauce with fresh basil while trying to ignore the messy red splotches on the walls near the stove. The window on the oven allowed a view of the baking pie. My mother’s famous lavender blueberry peach pie. She’d won a blue ribbon at the county fair with that recipe. My dad and brothers were in for a tasty meal.

  Mama Cabot’s Lavender Blueberry Peach Pie

  Mama says she makes her own pie dough, but we all know she cheats sometimes and buys pre-made from the grocery store. We’ll let that remain her little secret.

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  1 cup sugar, plus extra for sprinkling

  Zest and juice of ½ lemon

  1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  1 teaspoon lavender extract

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  4 cups sliced peaches

  2 cups blueberries

  2 pie pastries for a 9-inch pie

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 large egg

  Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.

  Stir flour, 1 cup sugar, lemon zest and juice, vanilla, lavender extract, and cinnamon together. Set aside.

  Mix together sliced peaches and blueberries and combine with dry ingredients.

  Spoon into pastry-lined pie pan and dot with butter.

  Place 4 pie pastry strips about 1 inch apart over the filling. Weave the remaining strips perpendicular. Trim off overhanging dough. With a fork, crimp the pie dough around the edge of the pan.

  Whisk egg with 1 teaspoon of water. Brush egg wash over lattice dough and edges of the pie with a pastry brush.

  Sprinkle top with sugar.

  Bake for 30 minutes until crust is brown.

  * * *

  “I’ll be back later,” I said, heading through the living room with a wave of my hand. I had twenty minutes to get to the diner.

  My mother hurried in front of me. “Not so fast.” She blocked the front door by stretching her arms out to the sides.

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “I’m worried about you, Celeste. It’s not every day someone discovers a murder victim. Plus, I have no idea who you’re meeting for dinner.”

  “He has a booth at the fair,” I said. “He makes hand-carved replicas of old-timey toys and the cutest birdhouses you ever saw. You’d like them, Mom.”

  My mother’s eyebrow raised. “So he’s an artist. What else does he do?”

  “He’s just an artist.” I reached around her for the doorknob.

  She blocked me with her hip. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  Uh-oh. I had hoped to escape before she asked for his name. She’d probably drag out her old laptop, and as soon as she got it fired up, she’d Google him. No need, though. I’d already tried it and found nothing on him. Not even a Facebook account. Lying to her and giving a fake name wouldn’t work either. She sniffed out my lies like a bloodhound on the trail of a crime.

  I twisted the doorknob and opened the door slightly. “Caleb Ward.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “You’re much stronger than you look.” I grunted as I tried to open the door.

  “Caleb Ward,” she repeated.

  I knew she was repeating the name so she could remember it.

  “Okay, I have to go,” I said.

  This time she didn’t stop me. “Be careful out there,” she called as I rushed toward my truck.

  I’d left the trailer at the fair. It was tough driving around with the thing attached to my vehicle. I was happy with my decision to purchase it, though, and my family had done a beautiful job of renovating it. Now I could travel around to craft fairs all over the region. In the summers I could even head north.

  About ten minutes later, I arrived at Patsy’s Paradise Café. Pictures of palm trees flanked the diner’s name on the large sign on the little building. I wasn’t sure what kind of car Caleb drove, so I had no idea if he had arrived. The diner’s décor was eclectic to say the least. The surrounding landscape figured all types of law
n decorations. Plastic flamingos, gnomes, and fake palm trees gave an atmosphere of whimsy that reflected my aunt’s personality. I parked the truck and headed inside the diner.

  “Celeste!” Patsy called out as soon as I stepped inside.

  Her greeting brought a smile to my face. Patsy’s hair was swept up toward the sky in a cone shape. It was the exact color of the maple syrup she served with fluffy pancakes.

  “Good evening, Patsy.” I waved.

  She gestured with a tilt of her head toward one of the booths by the window. Her palm-tree earrings swayed with the motion. Caleb was already sitting there. His stare was focused on me. A huge smile spread across my face. Butterflies danced in my stomach. He looked even more handsome than I remembered. Appearance-wise, he reminded me of a modern-day James Dean. Caleb had a boy next door quality, but underneath was he hiding bad boy behavior? Momentarily, I felt guilty for even thinking he might be involved with the murder. I headed for the table. He stood as I neared.

  Caleb wore jeans and a pullover shirt. Like me, he had dressed casually, taking the time to wear something that didn’t scream artist working. His blue eyes sparkled under the artificial light and his smile beamed.

  “You made it,” he said.

  Had he thought I wouldn’t show up?

  “Yes, and you’re here too,” I said around a laugh.

  “Is this table all right?” he asked with a gesture of his hand.

  Did he know this was the booth I always sat at? Had Patsy told him?

  “Yes, it’s perfect.”

  “I thought this booth had the best view of the parking lot,” he said.

  I laughed. “The food makes up for the lack of scenery.”

  After I sat down, he slid onto the seat across from me. “I’m guessing you have some connection to Patsy.”

  He focused his attention on the counter, where Patsy was busy at the register. Oh no. What had she done? Should I admit that she was my aunt or keep quiet? I supposed he would find out eventually if we continued to see each other. I might as well get the truth out there. I picked up a menu and handed it to Caleb.

  “Patsy’s my aunt on my father’s side. Plus, she’s my boss. Sometimes, that is.” I wanted him to see me as an artist, not a waitress, so I downplayed my part-time work at the diner. “I mean, I occasionally help her out here.”

  “I thought I saw a resemblance,” he said. “So tell me, what’s the best thing on the menu?”

  “Hands down, the burgers. Though if you want thick, you won’t get that here. She makes the meat so thin, it practically crumbles apart. Now normally, I would say that’s a bad thing, but in this case, it’s just . . . magical. The flavor is magical.”

  “Wow. After that description, how could I order anything else?” He placed the menu down.

  As if on cue, Patsy appeared next to our table. “What can I get you two good-looking dolls tonight?”

  “We’ve decided on burgers, Patsy,” I said.

  “With cheese?” she asked.

  “Cheese for me,” Caleb said.

  “And none for Celeste. Diet Coke for Celeste and . . .” She eyed Caleb up and down. “Sweet tea for you.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Patsy turned like a twirling ballerina and headed for the kitchen.

  “How did she know that?” Caleb asked.

  “Like I said, things are almost magic around here.”

  He chuckled. “I guess so.”

  Now that the ordering was complete, I realized we’d have to find something to talk about. There had been two seconds of silence and I was already panicking. I supposed there was no real reason to freak out just yet. After all, we were both artists and we could always discuss that.

  “You’re a woodworker?” I asked.

  “You’re a painter?” he asked.

  We spoke at the same time. Next, we laughed at the same time.

  “You go first,” Caleb said.

  “I saw some of your work and I think it’s fantastic,” I said. “I especially love your toys with the moving parts. They’re so clever.”

  His cheeks turned a light shade of pink. “Thank you. I appreciate that you took the time to check out my stuff.”

  The conversation was coming a lot easier than I’d thought.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, jumping up from the table.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Wait right here.” He held up his index finger and raced for the door.

  I wondered what this was all about. I nervously folded a napkin while I waited. A few seconds later, Caleb came back in holding a pink-paper-wrapped package with a white ribbon secured in a bow around it. He’d bought me a gift?

  Caleb slipped into the booth across from me. “I brought you something.”

  “Wow. That is incredibly thoughtful. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, I know I didn’t have to do it, but I wanted to. Open it.”

  My stomach danced as I picked up the package and slowly slid off the paper. The small, gold-painted wooden frame was perfect.

  “I know it’s not big, but I didn’t have time to make a larger one for you.”

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “I didn’t bring you a gift.”

  “Talking to you is gift enough,” Caleb said.

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I have a canvas I painted of Van. It will fit perfectly in the frame.”

  Caleb beamed. “That sounds perfect.”

  After placing the frame on the table, we went back to conversation. I couldn’t stop glancing over at the frame. The gift was one of the nicest things anyone had ever made for me.

  “I’ve been excited about the craft fair. But now it’s turned into a crime scene,” I said. “That might put a damper on things.”

  “Perhaps things will pick up once people realize there was a murder there. It might attract attention and people’ll want to come.”

  “That’s a bit morbid,” I said, toying with the salt and pepper shakers. They were in the shape of a pair of flamingos.

  “How have you been feeling?” Caleb leaned back and put his arm across the back of the booth, looking relaxed.

  “Anxious, of course, but at least I have my painting to help relieve anxiety and stress. That’s always been therapeutic for me.” I ran my finger along the wooden frame.

  Our conversation seemed to go smoothly, but I had to remember the reason for being here. I needed to ask Caleb questions about himself and why he had been at Evan’s trailer that night.

  Patsy brought our food, and we both dug in to the juicy burgers. After swallowing a bite, I said, “You were going to visit Evan that night. Why?”

  I just had to come out and ask the question. There was no way around it.

  He looked at me and picked up a French fry, dipping it into a pool of ketchup on his plate. “I needed to discuss some of the policies they have at the craft fair.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “It’s just that he changed a lot of things after we arrived. I expected one thing and he would do another, like where he had my booth and the time limit on when we could have things out. I was just generally unhappy with everything.”

  “Do you think a lot of people were unhappy with him?” I asked.

  “From what I heard, yes, there were a lot of people not happy with the way he was running things,” he said.

  “So unhappy they would kill him?” I pressed.

  He studied my face. “I suppose if the person was enraged like that, they might be set off by his behavior.”

  “An enraged person? I wonder who could be that angry.” I studied his face to see if there was any clue.

  Who was I kidding? I wasn’t an expert in analysis of people’s emotions or behaviors. I would have to go about this another way. Just trying to read him and get him to confess to the crime wouldn’t work. Besides, he seemed so nice. I certainly hoped I wasn’t sitting with a killer.

  Aunt Patsy brough
t over the check. She tried to get me not to pay for food every time I ate at the diner, but I insisted that if she wouldn’t let me pay, I wouldn’t make my famous peanut butter fudge for Christmas. It was her favorite. Sure, she was a great cook and all, but she said I had a magical touch with that stuff. I wasn’t sure I did anything differently than she did, but if she liked it, that was all that mattered.

  “I suppose we’ve taken up the booth for too long,” Caleb said.

  I realized the diner was packed. When had all the people come in? I’d been so engrossed in our conversation, I hadn’t noticed.

  “Yes, we should give someone else the table,” I said.

  Caleb grabbed the ticket. “I’ll pay the check.”

  “Thank you, but I doubt Aunt Patsy will allow that,” I said with a smile.

  “Why’d she bring the check, then?” Caleb asked.

  “She has her reasons,” I said, keeping my theory to myself.

  Caleb and I walked up to the register to pay. Aunt Patsy eyed Caleb as he approached. I knew she was full of questions. Luckily, because it was so busy, she wouldn’t have the chance to ask much.

  She smoothed her beehive hairdo. “How was everything?”

  Aunt Patsy was my dad’s sister. The expressive eyes and button noses gave away the family connection, but she’d made “slight adjustments” to her hair color. Normally she bleached it blond. Aunt Patsy called it a slight adjustment, but I called it night and day.

  “Delicious.” Caleb handed her cash.

  She wasn’t refusing money from him? Either that meant she didn’t like Caleb, or she was testing to see if he’d offer to pay. Which of my theories would be correct? When she took the money, she looked down at his hand. Aunt Patsy had a thing about hands. She said you could always tell people’s character by their hands. I didn’t believe that to be true, but of course I didn’t argue with her.

  “Whoa, what happened to your hands? Were you on the losing end of a battle with a lion?” Aunt Patsy asked.

  Caleb quickly moved his hand. “Oh, that. Yes, I was trying to bathe my sister’s cat the other day.”

  That was odd. He’d told me they were injuries from his wood carvings. Why the change in story? Should I confront him about this? Now my anxiety returned.