The Usual Family Mayhem

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning did not go well. It started with calls from Micah. He tried twice before eight. Either he didn’t own a watch or he didn’t care about my sleep schedule. Brock then texted to say he was back in town and: We need to talk today.

In addition to destroying my post-kiss buzz, the warning also started an alarm clock bonging in my head. The time for avoidance and denial had run out. I was being called in to explain. An unavoidable and, frankly, deserved ultimatum hovered on the horizon.

I’d had plenty of warning and time. From Brock. From Jackson. From that little voice in my head that recognized when I was on the cusp of tripping over my own feet. But knowing an explosion waited behind the closed door didn’t keep me from running headfirst into it. Unfortunately.

Confronting the mess days ago would have been the wise and mature thing to do. At every opportunity I’d chosen a different path.

In a feeble attempt to prolong my Brock-free time and inevitable firing, I left the house. If I couldn’t save my job, I could at least try to save Gram and Celia from a potential prison term. Not that I had a definitive answer about the poison, but I had a pile of things that seemed not quite right, a few that’s never happened before events, and a load of suspicion fueling my imagination.

That was the point of this errand. Gather intel.

With that special column in the business’s ledger gone, I lost the ability to link stars with the town’s recently dead husbands. That meant backing into the evidence by determining how many men had died unexpectedly in the area so far this year then cross-referencing to see if their wives or girlfriends ordered from Mags’ Desserts around that time.

Sounded simple, but no. How many local men over the age of thirty—an age I randomly picked—died? So many for so many different reasons.

A smart-thinking person might have stopped there. Not me. I dove into a new round of bad planning, which explained how I ended up standing in the bushes on the side of Abigail Burns’s house. An oversized SUV sat in the driveway, probably Austin’s, but he never showed his jackass face. If Abigail was in there she had some pretty stealthy skills because I didn’t see her either.

It’s amazing how much attention sneaking around draws. A woman chased me away by asking fifty questions about who I was because I looked familiar and “Do I have to call the police on you, young lady?”

The neighborhood watch was alive and well in Winston-Salem, which was a good thing but not helpful for my informal investigation.

My next step . . . a scone. Possibly a cupcake after the scone because I’d walked to and from Abigail’s house. Not miles but I’d racked up far more than my usual zero steps of morning exercise. I was a treadmill-after-work kind of gal. Any machine that allowed me to burn calories and watch television at the same time was my favorite.

With exercise checked off for the day my sole focus became working out a time to meet with Jackson and unload the twisted truth on my unsuspecting Gram and Celia.

Talking to Jackson. That part made me ridiculously happy and a little jumpy, two things I never was. Putting off the inevitable let me tell you about my work pitch talk with Gram might prolong my time with Jackson, but I could accidentally make an even bigger mess. Increasing mess size had been my greatest skill for several years now and I needed to break the habit.

I heard voices as soon as I walked into Gram’s kitchen. Gram and Celia and someone else. Another female. I shuddered to a halt when I saw who—Abigail Burns. I recognized her from my hours of online research. The starred pie lady stood right there next to a plate of blueberry muffins.

Blame Jackson. That kiss kept me up late. Reading about poison and information on the Burns family eventually helped me to sleep, but it took longer than expected.

Cash’s death, or murder, depending on who you talked to, had set off an explosion of press. News articles touted his intellect and business prowess. A few mentioned his son’s shady background. Austin liked to drink and drive, and why wasn’t that a surprise? A big-time jackass move performed by a big ole jackass.

Abigail and Cash married right after she graduated from college. He was older and had already launched business ventures, thanks to Daddy’s checkbook and a family loan he liked to pretend never happened. That made Abigail forty-something, but she looked more like a teenager. Petite with perfectly styled blond hair that landed just above her shoulders. She came off as fragile in a floral-print dress that fell past her knees.

“You’re back.”

Gram could not have sounded less excited about my return.

It looked like I was interrupting something. Not hard to guess what. No one offered an introduction, which I mentally added to the yeah, they sold a poison pie evidence I’d been collecting.

Abigail rubbed her hands together in front of her. “You must be Kasey.”

She might know about my run-in with Austin, but she might not. Asking if he’d been arrested for anything lately lacked tact, so I skipped that in favor of a boring response.

“I am.”

I extended my hand and Abigail took it. My fingers swallowed hers. This close she looked even smaller. The rounded shoulders. The tension pulling around her eyes. Panicked. Grieving. Guilty. I wasn’t sure which description fit.

“Abigail stopped by to say hello,”

Celia explained.

Yeah, sure she did.

What exactly was the proper etiquette for broaching the topic of a dead spouse to the woman who probably killed him? I had no idea. I went with a comment that sounded perfectly fine in my head. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

Maybe not so fine because at the mention of him a suffocating tightness gripped the room. Gram made a grumbling noise, which was never a good thing.

Abigail’s gaze darted from Celia to Gram. When Abigail finally did speak her voice sounded weak and small. “Thank you.”

I had a million questions and no ability to ask even one. Gram stared at me. I took that as a warning to be careful. That warning hadn’t worked for the first twenty-six years of my life. It wasn’t clear why she thought it would now.

“Did you come to get a pie?”

Every word I said came packed with unintended questions and condemnation.

Abigail went back to the hand-wringing. “Uh . . . I . . . no.”

Yep. Nothing suspicious about that response.

Celia delivered one of those fake smiles she’d perfected over the years. “Abigail needed to get out for some fresh air, so we invited her here.”

That sounded like a friendly thing to do. Funny how Gram and Celia forgot to mention this special friendship before now. “Of course. Would you like—”

“I was just leaving.”

Abigail stepped away from the counter.

She was this flaming ball of nerves. All anxious and unsure of herself. She shuffled her feet and shifted her balance from side to side. The constant movement made me feel bad for her and a little dizzy.

Since I wasn’t a total asshole I skipped all husband-related questions and any comment that strayed too close to death talk. This woman looked like she’d been through it. I refused to add to her pain. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

A light red stained Abigail’s cheeks. “You didn’t. No.”

Her voice carried a hint of uncertainty mixed with an unnecessary apology. The right word to describe her finally hit me—“lost.”

She looked as if she’d spent her entire life jumping to commands and waiting for people to tell her what to do.

I’d gotten a taste of her husband’s pointing and shouting. Dealing with rude and condescending behavior would take a toll. If the home version of him was as terrible as the public one, I’d continue not to mourn him or hope for him to have a peaceful rest because he didn’t deserve either.

“Okay, well . . .”

Abigail looked down at her shoes and then to Gram. “I should be going. I promised Austin I’d make his lunch.”

That guy. He was old enough to make a sandwich. “I’ll walk you out.”

My comment made all activity in the room stop. Honestly, this was the least subtle crowd ever. If Gram and Celia were in the business of men poisoning they’d better work on their poker faces.

I motioned for Abigail to come with me before Gram or Celia could step in. We walked to the door in silence. A death march. That’s what it felt like.

Abigail stopped right before touching the doorknob. I waited for her to talk again because the hesitation felt like something. Not sure what, but something.

“They’re happy you’re here.”

She whispered the comment.

It took a second for her words to sink in. Not a confession. More like a friendly reminder not to take Gram and Celia for granted, which solidified my belief about Gram and Celia having a personal relationship not only with the other woman with a surprise dead husband, Delilah Rhine, but with Abigail.

I needed to know how many more women had special pies delivered around the time of unexpected family deaths. I also needed to respond to Abigail because the way she looked at me with that vacant stare made me sad for her.

“I missed them.”

That wasn’t a lie. I did. “Very much.”

Abigail treated me to a slight smile as I opened the door . . . and saw Brock standing right there.