We came in. I walked in first and found him dead. The water was still running.
Reliving that fearful experience, I found myself humming “Silent Night.” Then instead of sticking my finger in the candy mixture to find whether it was still hot, I touched the side of the pot. Feeling the heat remaining there proved the detective’s interrogation had not taken nearly as long as it felt.
I reheated what was in the pot. Then, even if the recipe didn’t call for it, I beat the mixture. I beat the hell out of everything, imagining it was all the detective’s blame that he shoveled on us.
The pralines came out stiffer and more sugary than the smooth creamy ones I normally made, but I felt a slight release of my anger. I dropped them by tablespoons on the waxed paper.
While they cooled, I entered my dining room and made notes about all the subs we’d used on Edward’s house. My sister would have more detail about them, like if they had ever worked with us before.
We didn’t get to make all the revisions we had planned since he fired us—and died, I thought, intense sorrow once more swelling inside.
I wrote everything I could think of about the people we had hired and the men and few women who’d come around Edward’s house with them. A couple of guys seemed somewhat suspicious, or was I thinking that only because of their long ponytails or the way they wore their pants slung too low for my style? Those who carried in light fixtures or flooring or bathroom fixtures or other equipment could have watched the people they worked for getting the key for the front door from under the pot of asparagus fern. Any of them could have returned inside or even told others of the place it was supposedly hidden. Edward had wanted us all to put it there.
Mentally exhausted, I left my notes. In the kitchen, I lifted each cooled praline and placed it with others in a large plastic container I didn’t mind parting with.
Carrying the pralines outside, I took a moment to suck in fresh air. I looked at the blue sky, saw a large white cloud, and remembered how as a child, I enjoyed watching clouds and deciding what they looked like with my older sister who had died. This one reminded me of a bathtub.
I threw myself and the gift into my truck and took off.
Soon I arrived at our community center that had turned into a soup kitchen we called a gumbo kitchen because that’s what was served most to the needy. Lots of other southern dishes were prepared, and I’d never heard of anyone who ate there complaining about the food. A light crew worked every weekday and on holidays and fixed meals. Some of us locals often brought in an extra item or two.
“Oh, your yummy pralines,” Amy Mathews said when I walked inside and told her what I was carrying. Her skin was the attractive color of a rich cappuccino, and she wore flamboyant reds and yellows and purples as always. My friend since high school gave me a squeeze and took the container. “Maybe nobody else will get any.”
I laughed with her, knowing the most she would take of my candy might be a pinch that broke off. She cared too much about the less fortunate to take any food that was meant for them. It was probably also the reason she became my friend. Even if most of my classmates knew by the time we’d reached high school that I took longer than most of them to complete work because of my dyslexia, most of them still didn’t understand the disorder. Add to that my compulsion to blurt out or hum carols when I was scared, some of them just stayed back. I was mentally slow, some decided. If their minds hadn’t changed, so be it.
Amy was always my friend. She carried the sweets I’d brought to a long table. A few remains of cakes and other desserts stretched out past the table that had held large containers of redfish court bouillon. Mainly a little of the brownish red sauce and chopped bell pepper and celery remained, along with small chunks of fish. The large dish of rice held only a little left for anyone wanting seconds or any hungry latecomer who walked inside.
Voices rose and lowered from the dozen or so people who had finished eating and were playing cards. Most were probably enjoying Hand and Foot, a game some could play all day and didn’t like to be disturbed from.
Hey, y’all,” Amy called to them, “Sunny brought pralines.”
The few women but mainly men scrambled from their benches and rushed to where we stood. “Yum. Thanks, Sunny,” some said. Each grabbed a praline, a few going for another but holding back, waiting until every person had one. Then a couple of men lifted their eyebrows to Amy as though asking if they could have more.
“Go ahead. Help yourself,” she said.
They took them and returned to their card games. In the end, Amy and I were left with sugary crumbs that flaked off large pieces.
“These are nice, but not as good as your usual ones.” Amy spoke to me as only a true friend should.
“I know.” Pulling my thoughts back to Detective Wilet’s interruption of my candy-making process, I inwardly shuddered. “I needed to stop for a few minutes while I was cooking.”
Her large eyes kept contact with mine. “You looked bothered from the minute you stepped through the door. What’s wrong?” She leaned close and cocked her head with her chin lifted like she always did when she seemed like a psychiatrist about to probe my soul. “Problems with your boyfriend?”
“Oh no, not him.” I took her hands. “Amy, somebody we worked for died, and Eve and I seem to be suspected of causing his death.”
A brief laugh left her mouth. “Well, if that’s the only problem…” She grinned, then looked serious. “Who died?”
“Edward Cancienne.”
She quirked a brow. “I don’t think I knew him.”
“That S.O.B.!” The man seated behind me threw his cards on the table. His back was toward us, but he turned his slim body to face us. His forehead was wide, his lips thin and twisted in anger. “Edward Cancienne screwed my cousin out of so much money it put him out of business!”
I hadn’t meant for others to hear us, but since this man had, I was truly interested in what he told us. “What happened?”
“He messed around with my cousin so much he lost his company and started drinking again. His wife and kids left him.” Fury made large veins stand out on the man’s forehead. His face became edged with red.
I didn’t want to urge his anger on but wanted to know more. “Who is your cousin?”
“Emery Jackobson.” He shook his head. His teeth pressed tight together, revealing an overbite.
“Come on. Let’s get on with the game. What’s your bet?” the fellow seated across from him said.
“Okay.” Emery Jackobson’s cousin slapped the table and glanced back at me. “If you killed Edward, then good for you.”
Returning his attention to the card game, he didn’t see me shaking my head and didn’t seem to hear me saying, “No, I didn’t do it.”
Amy grabbed my arm and pulled me away from all the others. “He’s going to believe what he wants to. For now, you’re his hero.” She grinned. “Or heroine.”
“Who is he?” I needed names for the detective.
“All he says is Nelson. They have to sign in when they come here, but that guy hasn’t been coming for long. A first name is all he writes.”
“Or maybe it’s his last name.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, it’s what I’ve heard a couple of them calling him.”
So maybe it was a first name, I figured after I shared