Murder at the Tremont House (A Blue Plate Cafe Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

called up two-dozen responses, but now there were only three. I copied down the names, phone numbers, and addresses, and then I searched on Google for Sara Jo Cavanaugh. Came up empty-handed, but I wasn’t surprised. Searched for national magazines based in Dallas and did no better. Cindy came home about that time, and we got lost in hugs and catching up.
    Over dinner at Patrizio ’s in Highland Park Village, we continued to catch up. Cindy told me about the latest man in her life—the second since I’d left, almost a year ago. He was a lawyer, good prospects, etc., but she wasn’t sure how crazy she was about him. It sounded to me like an affair of convenience. In turn, I told her the complicated story of all that happened last spring, with William Overton turning out to have murdered both Gram and Irv Litman. I guess I was back to small-town, button-the-lip ways because I didn’t mention Donna’s involvement at all, and when she asked about Donna, I just said she was running a B&B. Boy, did I leave a lot out of that story.
    In the end, it was one o ’clock in the morning before we went to bed, but I found my new habits die hard. I was up at six, fixing coffee, reading the paper, watching the news on TV. Cindy appeared at seven-thirty, in a flurry to get dressed for work.
    “ You have plans for the day?” she asked.
    “ My old boss is going to take me to lunch.”
    “ Hmm. I remember he isn’t so old…but isn’t he married? Don’t go there again, Kate.”
    Why does she put a relationship—or sexual—tinge on every friendship? I guess I ’ve been away too long. “He’s divorced now, but that’s not why we’re going to lunch. He’s a good friend, helped us out with that legal mess over the dishonest accountant, and I just want to catch up with him.” I decided not to mention Sara Jo, at least not yet.
    I appeared at David ’s office promptly at eleven-thirty. The receptionist announced me, he introduced me to my replacement—my age, but a bit dowdy I thought, though David said she was almost as efficient as me. And then we went to lunch at Stephan Pyles’ restaurant, fairly new and one I’d never been to. As usual in places with Pyles’ name on them, the dining was gracious, the service impeccable. I had a chef’s salad—over David’s protests that I should get something fancier. Made with wood-roasted chicken, smoked cheddar, manchego, heirloom tomatoes, and Kalamata olives—which I asked them to leave out. It was tossed with a balsamic dressing. I reveled in flavors I couldn’t get in Wheeler and couldn’t sell if I did. David had the pan-roasted Gulf snapper with shrimp and homestead grits and said he was sure my grits were better. Pyles even came by the table, toque and all, to inquire if we were enjoying our meal.
    “ This,” I said later to David, “is what I miss about Dallas.”
    “ Enough to want to come back? Your job is always yours.”
    I shook my head.
    Over lunch I poured out the whole Sara Jo story to him, but I didn’t get the magic kind of advice I wanted.
    “ Never heard of her, don’t know how you can track her down. She could be freelancing for one of hundreds of magazines. I’d ask her if she has a business card, a portfolio, something to establish her credibility.”
    I ’d tried that but not gotten very far. Maybe I’d press the matter a little more severely. “I will. She actually doesn’t come into the café much. Stays at Donna’s B&B, fixes her own meals since Donna gave her kitchen privileges—and charged her more for that.”
    He grinned. “Sounds like Donna. I’ll come to Wheeler for a day sometime, see if I can get her to interview me, and give you my opinion, but beyond that, I just don’t know. You seem to think she’s there to stir up trouble.”
    “ Oh, I don’t know if that’s why she’s there, but I think it will be the end result of her so-called investigative reporting. You should already hear the complaints I’m getting—from the